I pushoff the wall and take the green dress from her. “It’s a girls’ night.”
“Mm-hmm.” She watches me slip it on, her gaze sharp in that way that sees too much. “You like him,” she says casually. “So is there a chance he’ll stop by his sister’s house randomly?”
I don’t look at her. “I tolerate him.”
“You changed outfits twice.”
“I spilled coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee at night.”
I turn, narrowing my eyes. “You’re exhausting.”
She grins. “And right.”
I move to the mirror, smoothing the fabric over my hips. The dress fits as if it was made to betray me. Elena leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “Tell me again. Why are you not sleeping with him?”
“I’m not sleeping with anyone.”
“Deflection.”
“My father?—“
“Ah,” she says, pointing. “There’s the ghost in the room.”
I bite my bottom lip. “My father officiates his games.”
“And?”
“And he already hates Max.”
“Does he hate him,” she asks, “or the version of him he’s decided is true?” I don’t answer. She steps closer. “You said you left two years ago because of your father.”
“I did.”
“You also said you didn’t leave a note.”
I meet her gaze in the mirror. “That was the smart choice.”
“That was the scared choice.”
My spine stiffens. “You don’t understand?—“
“Show me.”
“What?”
“A picture,” she says. “Of the terrifying man who has you running from a hockey player you clearly want to climb.”
“Elena.”
She holds out her hand. I hesitate. Then, against better judgment, I grab my phone and pull up a photo. My father in full officiating uniform. Whistle. Authority. Presence that fills a rink without trying. She studies it longer than I expect, and her expression shifts. “Well,” she says finally.
“Well?”
“I get it.”
Relief flickers—and dies immediately.
